All's Fair In Love And Warped
by Metronomeblue
Summary: Other Stanford grads are being precisely targeted, and Sam begins to see people who aren't there. But when some old friends of theirs appear on-scene, Sam gets suspicious. A not-so-simple story of Suburbia, Stanford, and demons, metaphorical and literal.:
1. Prologue: Not So Simple

Ash Spring Development is a small group of two-story complexes in west Michigan. Quiet, green, well-trimmed lawns, tall trees... As far as neighborhoods go, ours is pretty peaceful. I mean, as peaceful as any suburban group. There's the occasional teenage fistfight, the odd argument, but mainly it was quiet.

That's why it came as such a surprise when Mrs. Annette Dare was found dead in her house on the twenty-fifth of June. And when she declared to have been murdered? Well, we sort of lost face after that. For about two minutes. Then we were all set back to be pushing timetables, gossiping, and acting as though it didn't happen. Mm-Hm. But that wasn't exactly how it happened. Because that was when They came.

The Winchesters. Even now, if you even mention that you've met them, people suddenly begin crowding around you. They... They saved us all. Never appreciated, never known, but always there. Oh, that's right. My name is Nea. Nea Givens... I hate my last name.. HATE IT. I used to wonder why, but now I know perfectly well.

Because it landed me in a history project with Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore, and Monica Fielded.

And that project landed me here.

And here landed me in trouble.

So here's the story. My story. It's a long one, a story that spans seven years and two oceans. It's a story of Suburbia, a story of Stanford, and a story of demons, metaphorical and literal. It all begins with a clock and a house fire. Then it ends with one too. But mostly it's a story of how the past catches up. How life catches up. And how hard it can be to tell someone you love them.

Ready? Well, ready or not... Here I come. Look out world.

-N 


	2. 1: From Michigan To Manhattan

The fire was never found to have killed anyone. It was a small house-fire, relatively contained, and no bodies were found. In fact, the only thing that was relatively harmed was the clock. It was an old clock, one with a story. It was old, yes, but it worked, before the fire, it worked almost too well for a clock of it's age... It was a clock what came with a myth, the myth of the thirteenth hour. The myth went somewhere along those cliche lines, the lines of:

"On the thirteenth hour, betwence one and twelve, there shalt be no witness to the flame of golden eyes. The blood that runs down such a flame is the blood of the damned, the blood of those damned by Lucifer himself, twisted and warped beyond recognition, betwixt blood and flame, there shalt be a child, a child of Heaven and of the angels' warrior she shall be. Blood shall taint her, and yet she shalt be as she was in years gone past, in all the glory of wing and sword." Those cliche lines. They haven't changed much these past years. Though.. That was a Prophecy, the likes of which hasn't been seen for years... But that clock, that clock carved with flame and angel wings, that clock which was unharmed by fire or ash, well... It's hour hand stopped halfway between one and twelve, and it's minute hand on twelve. Just proves... there ain't much to disbelievin' anymore.

-Supernatural-

"Nea!" Nea Givens stepped away from her computer. The flashing text bar was hovering over her first initial. She had been very deeply immersed in her "work", as she called it. The doorbell rang. Again. It was the third time that day that the black-haired hacker had been interrupted whilst typing and encoding a demonological report from West Virginia.

"WHAT?" She shouted, her rather loud voice carrying down the stairs. "I'm working, y'know!" Hearing no answer, she ran down the stairs, minding her landing, jumped off the third-to-last and skidded the last few steps into the kitchen in her socks. "Hm? Liiiisaaaaaaaa..." She said to the frozen-in-amusement woman standing with one hand around the coffeepot, as though it was the most normal thing to do all that.

"Wha? Oh, Sam Winchester on the phone for you." She retracted the hand from the coffepot and grabbed the phone, (on hold) from the "marble" counter. Nea took it and ran up the stairs before un-hold-ing it.

"Sammmmmm... Now what could you possibly be calling ME about?" Nea smirked, and even Sam from over the phone could hear the telltale worry in her words. He wouldn't call her (stupid apathetic prat), for anything less important than the End Of The World. Nea really smirked when she heard his nervous swallow over the line.

"Ah, uh, Nea." He ran a hand through his copious amounts of dusty-brown hair.

"Uh-huh." There was an obvious raised eyebrow.

"We, uh, we... Dean and I-... I've been seeing people who aren't there." There. He smiled in crazed relief. He had said it.

"Sam." There had been a rather large pause over the line before her reproachful answer. The look of tightening worry passed and settled over his face again.

"Nea?" He could hear her sharp intake of breath clearly. Too clearly.

"You're not the only one." He froze, his pacing stopped short.

-SCREW TWILIGHT!- (LOL, couldn't resist)

"No, Nea. I'm fine. I'm in New York. Yes, I know that you're in England with Lisa and Ben, but I'm fine. Really." Monica Fielded sighed. "Fine. Yeah, uh-huh. Sure. Bye." She hung up, the phone clicking the tiniest bit, a satisfying sound that narrated it's return to her jacket pocket. She puffed out, her breath creating short-lived, swirling mist over the subway train tracks. Shje was in New York, true, and she was currently on a case of disappearances that were both suspiciously predicted, and were also meant to take her mind off of what had happened to Jessica. She sighed again, this time out of weariness over her own fear. "That's it." She muttered frustratedly to herself. She tossed a lock of chestnut-brown hair over her shoulder and out of her face. SHe reclaimed the phone, retrieving it from it's dark, warm, position. She flicked it's screen open, thumbing through the numbers until she hit:  
"Winchester", first name unlisted. She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes and looking up, almost to gather courage, and pressed the button, hearing the first few rings as the train slid smoothly into the station. A dark figure behind her stood, legs spread to shoulder-distance. As Monica began climbing the first few steps, phone to her ear, she flicked her head around to dispel a strand of hair, but catching sight of him, she stopped, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide. "Henry." She whispered, her ear still covered by dial tones. "What are you.."

"MOVE ALONG!" Bellowed a station guard, causing her to look at him. When she turned around, "Henry" was gone. Boarding the train, she smiled, hearing the familiar voice, even over voicemail. She looked at her destination on the map... Michigan.

End Chapter One...

A/N:  
So? How was it? Was it too dramatic? But, just as food for thought... Which Winchester was Monica calling? What's Nea's connection to Sam? Who's Henry? And WTF was that Prophecy about anyway? Please Review!  
Natsu-Tan


	3. Goodbye :

A/N: This story has been discontinued for a while. :) Well, actually, a LONG while... I'm going to be rather busy with 'Til Now', and some one-shots, so I'll continue it and edit it if I feel like it. I hope you'll consider reading my crossover with Good Omens, which will borrow some of the plot and excerpts of text, as it will condense this story into one chapter. Thanks to all of you, and goodbye for now,  
Natsu-Tan 


End file.
